Mood Indigo
by Pepper's Ghost
Summary: France has more complex needs then others give him credit for. He makes do the best he can despite the unfortunate reputation it causes.


Title: Mood Indigo

Summary: France has more complex needs then others give him credit for. He makes do the best he can despite the unfortunate reputation it causes.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. This is just how I have fun.

Warning: one-shot of ridiculously long length, self-beta'd, sexual situations, consent issues, slander, swearing, mentions of rape (no rape, or off stage rape, or any kind of rape in this fic), too many allusions to history, inappropriate drinking habits, complex feelings, use of both human and nation names (This is intentional – when in the presence of humans, nations use their human names. It is also a mark of closeness between nations when it is just themselves.).

X

"Aww! God!"

America's chair hit the ground with a thud as the nation reeled back, his arms cart wheeling a bit from the hasty retreat from France's vicinity.

"You used tongue!" America cried. He suddenly dropped to the floor behind the conference table out of most everyone's sight. After some rummaging sounds America popped back up with a toothbrush and toothpaste in hand. He sprinted out of the conference room with his tongue stuck out brandishing his oral hygiene tools as if they could ward off the devil himself.

After a short stunned silence, the conference went to hell.

"Jesus get away."

"Bad touching is bad."

"Just stay where you are."

"Degenerate."

"Pervert."

It only got worse from there.

Eventually Germany cut in like he always does.

"That's enough!" Germany yelled over the noise. "This meeting is over for the day. The conference will convene again tomorrow."

Germany had barely concluded his statement before there was a collective stampede for the door. Most gave France a wide berth upon exiting. Within minutes the only nation left in the room was France.

He sighed to himself and began collecting his notes. Upon rising he straightened his suit jacket. His briefcase shut with a click. He even pushed his chair in before quietly exiting the room. His footsteps echoed down the hallway.

On the way back to the hotel he stopped at an art store.

That night he painted an incredible, rugged landscape.

X

France was tired the next day but staying up nearly all night was well worth it.

He did not overhear the whispers.

He did not feel the pointed looks.

He did not register the increased distance between him and everyone else.

He even misses the fact that America had shuffled name tags around (which was a new rule this year on the things-that-were-not-supposed-to-happen-during-a-c onference list) so that he was no longer sitting near France.

No. The meeting went off without a hitch. Or at least with no problems caused by the sleep-deprived France. Instead China and England had gotten into a very heated shouting match that deteriorated into really ugly waters very quickly. To save the collective from having to rehash several unpleasant realities, Germany called the end of the conference several hours early. It was unfortunate that they all had to leave on such an unsavory note but everyone was beyond caring. Sure it was great to see everyone for a few days but a whole week of confined quarters with such a diverse group with too much shared history – impossible to tolerate for anyone other then a saint.

Being let out early did have its advantages.

Some nations got lucky and managed to get on earlier flights home. Most were stuck through the morning. These nations were usually very bitter about the fact and did not make for good company.

However, France was pleased that so many were stuck. He still had a fairly wide crop to select from for his next rendezvous – sure he was already tired but he has fought through wars on less sleep so he still considered himself game for anything.

All he had to do was bide his time a bit.

France checked his watch. He still had two hours before his dinner reservation. He also had a small sketchbook in his briefcase. It was a beautiful sunny day. Time to take a walk.

After not too long France located a quaint courtyard with a small pickup band trying out some old songs. After some serious internal debate he chose a bench and set about trying to draw something.

Page: blank – fresh – clean.

Pencils: sharp – poised – ready.

The beginning of something glorious.

And yet.

Nothing.

He paused, reframed, and tried again.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

The songs changed and nothing came.

He lifted up his hand and then reset.

Still nothing.

Well this just wouldn't do.

He tried to doodle the birds that had come to approach him thinking he might have food. He flipped that page over in disgust at the result.

He tried to do a quick sketch of the band. This page was discarded even faster then the first.

He tried to capture the perspective of the architecture. This page was the worst out of all three.

He was wasting paper.

He flipped to the next page and thought long and hard about what he wanted to do.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the feel of the kiss he and America shared yesterday. How utterly irresistible America had been just before the deed was done. How his stubble had scratched along America's baby smooth face. How their lips had met. How America tasted of cherry chapstick and Coca-Cola with an undertone of hamburger. How America's teeth were shiny smooth from having been brushed at lunch. How America's face had lit up with warmth that even France could feel. How America's glasses had dug into France's cheekbones due to the awkward angle.

Despite being alone France tried to pretend that they were sharing the kiss all over again.

France lingered on the feeling.

Without opening his eyes, the pencil met the paper and France's hand flew across the page.

It seemed like such a short time that he could capture the feeling.

When he opened his eyes again he studied his work. It was a chaotic combination of what was in front of him and possibly New Orleans. It wasn't bad. But it wasn't good either. He didn't like it.

France tried again to repeat the process. This time he got an even smaller sketch of a base player. It was highly stylized and of even worse quality then his courtyard mash up.

Checking his watch France figured he had one more go of it. He got a very small (but pretty accurate) daisy. Just the one. With very simple line work. And no shading.

He was tapped out. It was a very unfortunate situation so soon after a conference.

But at least it was time to go.

He took the long way back to his hotel and dropped off his briefcase. He changed into a new outfit because the one he was wearing smelled like conference room. He didn't run across anyone on the way to the restaurant.

"Francis! Francis! Over here!"

Not even a second through the door and he could already hear were he would be placed. He shot the woman with the menus a seductive smile and headed back to a table for three.

"Gilbert. Antonio," said France. He made to pull his chair out but Prussia had stopped it with his foot. France shot him an unamused look at the childish prank and yarded the chair out so he could sit down.

"Geeze. Don't get your knickers in a twist, Franny," said Prussia.

"Yeah – we are now on vacation again!" Spain added.

"And you even got to pick the restaurant this time," Prussia said. "They don't even have any decent German beer here. I am lodging a complaint."

"Hey!" Spain said. "My beer isn't that bad."

"I'm just saying," said Prussia. "Dude, are you ok?" Both Prussia and Spain were looking at France with quizzical expressions. It was unusual for France to not have joined in to their familiar argument about alcohol.

"Sorry. I'm just somewhat tired," said France waving them off.

"Up all night banging chicks huh?" said Prussia. "What with how you were desperate enough to kiss Alfred yesterday I don't blame you for getting in some good relaxation time."

"Alfred's not too bad looking," said Spain.

"Sure if you've got a thing for blonds with blue eyes."

"And you don't?"

"Shut up."

Francis couldn't help it. He threw his head back and laughed long and hard at his friends' antics. The other two joined him in laughing shortly after because laughing helps everything.

The laughter served to be a great reboot to the evening. Sure they were pleasantly bubbly the whole meal and the waiter might have had to come and shush them once or twice, but it proved to be a fantastic outing.

The trio went their separate ways after the meal. Spain returned to his house and Prussia went to go badger Germany who always seemed to book a different hotel then the rest of the nations. Instead of taking a taxi back, France took his time enjoying the lightness of the evening with a good walk. He admired the architecture and the flow of human life in the twilight of a Friday night.

His good mood lasted all the way to the hotel. He was just punching the elevator call button when he spotted something that caught his attention.

It was England.

At the hotel bar.

Muttering quiet nonsense into the bar top.

Perfect.

France ignored the elevator and made a beeline for the Englishman.

He slid in to the bar stool next to England and tried to gage just how plowed his target was. England didn't even notice his presence – right where France wanted him to be.

He made a show for the bartender. He scolded the lost-in-his-head England and inquired if the tab had been paid. Most of it had but France covered the last bit and hauled England over to the elevator.

He would have made it off scot free if the recalled elevator hadn't opened to reveal China and Poland. They both eyed France critically as the four traded spots. France could already hear the rumor mill churning. Heck, he could even hear them talking to each other in hushed voices as the doors slid shut. Such was the price he paid.

As they made it to England's room, England was still stewing over the revolutionary war – at least the man was predictable and usually went in chronological order when it came to his drunken ramblings.

Still, France had had just enough of his toes being stepped on so he unceremoniously dumped England onto the bed instead of gently lowering him down.

That seemed to snap England out of it a little bit.

"Francis?" It was slurred and groggy but there. France concentrated on taking both his and the Englishman's shoes off.

"Wat'er ye do-n," England said.

France just shushed him and crawled onto the bed next to England. He hovered over the inebriated nation searching for something but England was firmly stuck on hazy confusion. Finding what he wanted to see France leaned down and kissed England.

It was just a small touching of the lips really.

France pulled back and studied England once again. His cheeks had acquired an extra rosy tint that added to his drunken red but that was the whole of the changes.

So France kissed him again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

England didn't say anything else that night save for a few moans after particularly sensual kisses.

France did his best to keep England awake for as long as he could. He varied his kissing style but never strayed anywhere but the lips. His hands only moved to either clutch at the sheets or England's head and shoulders to bring him deeper into a kiss.

While they both grew hard over the night France only allowed England to grind down on him once or twice before pinning him more firmly to the bed to continue with their pure, unadulterated kissing.

They made out all night long until the wee hours of the morning when England finally passed out from the long day and the alcohol. France cuddled next to his catch for some time but left before he had to deal with an irate, hung over England.

Before he left he made sure to get one last kiss for the road from those bruised lips.

He made his way back his room, got cleaned up for the new day, packed and checked out of the hotel just as dawn was breaking. It was for the best – he didn't want anyone to see his large canvases and ask him why he was carting the things around for the conference. Sometimes it was easier not to deal with too many questions. Before he left he made sure that the hotel would give England a wakeup call in time for him to catch his flight home. It was the least France could do for taking advantage of the situation like he did. And no one would know but him and the graveyard shift concierge as an added bonus.

On the flight France did nothing but sketch anything and everything. Perfect, the people around him said. Not too bad, France himself thought.

X

His creative streak lasted for about a week.

He churned out many great oils and watercolors during this time. He wasn't even horribly disappointed when the streak ended for it was time for him to go back to his endless paperwork.

Of course as soon as he got in to the office he had to deal with an irate England who chewed him out for hours on end over an untruth he had the misfortune of hearing from the grapevine.

Honestly, nations were worse then a bunch of old biddies with nothing to do but gossip.

X

A month had gone by.

A whole month of nothing.

His hands refused to do what he knew in his mind he could do.

It was depressing.

He wanted to paint.

He wanted to draw.

Heck, he would even accept sculpting or woodworking or _anything_ creative.

But no.

Even trying to make believe was not working.

His hungry heart was being let down by his imagination.

He couldn't live like this.

But he had to.

To make matters worse the only meeting with another nation he had was in three days. But it was with Italy.

Maybe it was time to pay England a visit again.

X

France considered himself very lucky to be a nation at times. If he had shown up to an important meeting sporting the hideous black eye he received from England, he would be fired if he had been a human. But he was a nation so it only took a very small smidge of makeup to hide the mostly gone shiner.

Still, it was worth it. He created a massive seascape and several smaller works just from one peck. (It helped that the short kiss was able to refresh his memory on his past lip locking experiences with England.)

Maybe if he was lucky he could catch Italy off guard and snatch something from him too. (He crossed his finger that his meeting was with North Italy and not South Italy because if it were the latter his plot would have no chance of happening at all.)

X

"Ah ah ah," said North Italy.

A kiss to the finger was not going to cut it. France sighed. So much for that plan.

"You really have to stop doing this Francis."

France sighed again and determinedly looked everywhere but at North Italy.

"I should leave," said France.

"You'll find a sweetheart. I know it!" said North Italy. "I just know it."

Despite the comforting words, North Italy was sure to get France out the door so that no more advances were made. France just didn't understand how everyone could think that North Italy was an airhead. The Medici were from Florence after all. And while they may be the poster child for that sort of thing, it's just the tip of the iceberg of North Italy's cunning.

It didn't matter. Francis was plum out of luck here.

X

Francis was left high and dry for another long while. England had managed to avoid him despite his many attempts at cornering the other nation. He could not tell if it was because England was working late or had finally managed to curse himself with some sort of France detection radar.

He just wanted to paint.

Was that too much to ask?

X

The next conference was a complete disaster. (Not that France was expecting any better.)

Normally people were at least cordial but this was a new level of brutal.

Maybe it was just because he had not managed any form of art for way too long for his liking.

Either way, all but tackling England at the last session of the conference during the middle of one of their more violent verbal sparing matches and trying to fiercely making out in front of the assembled nations was not the best idea.

Everyone reacted violently. Half of the assembly was convinced that it was part of some kinky ritual and that they were going to go at it right then and there. (The way that England was trying to pry France off of him by bucking furiously was not helping maters.) The other half were horrified by the attack. Things were normal and then they weren't and people weren't comfortable with that at all.

In the end England managed to free himself with a bruised pride, bruised lips and a lump on the back of his head the size of a golf ball.

Francis was not so lucky. His nose was broken for sure. His black eye was back. His tongue was still in one piece but only just. He was bruised all over and in general felt like crap.

Hopefully it would be enough to get his inspiration back in action.

X

It was.

Maybe it was the blood spilled or the fact that his tongue and nose didn't heal for a good long while by nation standards (England always knew just how do deal out damage that lasted), but France was back in action again.

He painted war scenes and portraits of his old leaders and still lifes. He covered a myriad of styles and artistic eras.

It was brilliance.

And so worth the no doubt horrible reputation that was brewing while he ignored his phone and mail.

He'll deal with that later.

He was creating art.

X

Unfortunately the bulk of his art was created in his hotel room. Sure he was in France but he didn't have a house close enough to the designated conference center.

He did have his car this time around though. He could easily pack his art home in it.

As per his style he departed very, very early in the morning.

But by the time he managed to fit all of his canvases into the car, it was already past dawn and the early birds could catch him. He was just moving the last painting (a portrait of his favorite bakery owner back in 1715, not that anyone would know but him) when he was discoverer.

"I like that one."

It was a soft voice but it startled France worse then a gunshot next to his head. France was so shocked he almost dropped his piece.

France spun around clutching the canvas as if it were a shield to confront his unwelcome guest.

"Who is it?" asked Canada.

"What?" France's brain wasn't firing quickly enough to catch up with this unforeseen turn of events. As it was, he could barely keep himself from turning tail and running down the street. For so long he had been so careful. It was all to ruin now.

"That person in your painting. Who is it?"

"Her name was Anna." France balked at himself. What was his mouth doing? He needed to get in the car. He needed to go away. He needed to leave before anyone else could see him and his art. Now was not the time to answer questions. Never would there be time to answer questions.

"You must have really loved her – she is rendered so beautifully."

"She was my favorite baker for a number of years." France's voice was still hushed and breathless. No matter how hard he rattled the cage of his mind he could not get through to the rest of himself. It was agony but in the soft morning light only his pallor hinted at the inner turmoil of being discovered.

"Oh."

Despite the intimacy of the conversation the pair stood far apart. Canada had made no move but to speak out. If France hadn't been able to barely see the rise and fall of Canada's breathing reflected in the changing folds of his shirt, France would have sworn that the whole situation was not real. France had yet to relinquish his shield and still had his deer in the headlights look. He wondered how much Canada had seen. Or how much Canada knew.

For so long he didn't think anyone had noticed his early morning retreats, but now he wasn't so sure. Canada had always been unobtrusive and almost invisible when he wanted to be. It was a bit of a paradigm shift to think that his secret might be out. Or that it could have been out for so long with France none the wiser.

Francis clutched his painting tighter. He did not like this turn of events. Canada wasn't doing anything threatening but his presence was just that jarring.

"You are a great artist," said Canada after a long pause.

No. No, France wasn't. He wasn't. He couldn't paint or sketch well at all. He was a hack who could barely keep it together at the best of times. He was a horrible artist.

"I mean it," continued Canada.

After another long pause both were still unmoving.

"You must be tired," Canada continued. "Here. Let me help."

Slowly. Very slowly. Canada moved toward France as if he were a cornered animal. His fingers curled around the frame of the canvas and he gently moved it out of France's hands. He then drew it away from himself to fully inspect the painting. Canada appeared to not notice how, despite not holding anything, France had kept his arms up around his chest with his fingers still loose from having the painting pried away.

"Brilliant," Canada said with a smile. "Just like all the others."

France sucked in a shaky breath. Canada had seen more. How much more? Just today's worth? Or from times previous? Did he know? Did he suspect? How had France missed him this whole time?

It was all too much to take in. France just stood there dumbly, unmoving.

Gently, with a small smile, Canada led France to the waiting car full of artwork. He secured the last piece of art carefully in the passenger seat (the only open space left available really) and shuffled France to the driver's seat. He even bucked France in. The funny thing was if it had been anyone else performing these action France probably would have reacted violently. But Canada was pouring on the unobtrusive-ness which just added to France's dazed and confused feeling. If Canada hadn't been murmuring soft words that weren't registering in France's mind, France would have thought that either he was in a waking dream or being guided by the wind. That's just how out of it he was.

"Watch your fingers," said Canada as he shut the door.

France stared at Canada from out the window and Canada looked back.

Neither made to move.

Then out of nowhere Canada drew forward and knocked on the window glass. It was an automatic response that caused France to roll the window down. France felt betrayed by his hand. Canada just smiled.

"Mathieu, I – " France said.

"Shh," said Canada. Again with a finger to the lips. France was sick and tired of fingers to the lips.

Then Canada leaned down and kissed him.

So soft and barely there.

It was magical.

But so short lived.

Was that even real?

Canada's smile and hint of blush were all the confirmation France needed.

"Safe trip," said Canada. And just like that he was gone.

France sat in the car with his hand touching his lips well into the morning.

Even after that he drove off in a daze thinking only of their brief union.

France didn't remember much of the drive. (To be fair he drove this route so many times that it would take a multi-car pile up to really make him pay attention to the road.)

He arrived home and went straight to his studio.

He was halfway through some pointillism thing when he felt the burning need to eat.

With a heavy heart he stopped and grabbed a sandwich.

Oddly he was able to return to his work and not miss a beat.

Incredible.

He could get the feeling back easily.

(Actually all he really had to think about was confusion and he had the feeling back.)

He doodled during boring meetings.

He sculpted during lunch.

He painted in the evening and in the early hours of the morning.

He was freaking out.

It had been just one kiss. A barely there one at that.

He knew he was in trouble when he started dreaming about it.

X

The next meeting was the best that it had been in a long time. He arrived just when he wanted to. He had a nice meal with Spain and Prussia like they always try to do to kick off the madness. Canada kissed him again just before the meeting started. Slowly, softly, almost not there. It was a shy encounter at the foot of the conference room stairwell.

It did wonders for France.

There was no underlying burn to grab the nearest nation and kiss. There was no desire to hunt someone down and entice an encounter. There was no urge to rip his hair out in frustration at not being able to do art either. He had his kiss – he knew he could do it.

He was on his absolute best behavior so that the meeting could finish as quickly as possible and he could go drop a small fortune on art supplies. His smiles and carefree demeanor set the other nations on edge. They gave him looks – looks that reminded him of his old empire days when no one really knew what he was going to do next, like when he held all the cards in his hands and was master of his universe.

It was sunny in Paris.

The meeting ended early for once in their eternal lives and France was one of the first nations out the doors. He made particularly sure to visit the art store miles away from any potential area a fellow nation could show up. It was three towns over but France didn't care. The old man running the art shop (it had been there for years, France always knew where the diamonds in the rough were these days) simply smiled at France's ludicrous requests and helped gather everything. The paints, the brushes, a myriad of canvases. He wanted it all and the old man was happy to oblige.

France didn't make it back to his hotel that night. Instead, on the drive back he spotted a well-lit corner of the world and set up shop along the side of the road. The Swiss Alps before him became a stand in for every mountain range. The night was beautiful and France painted out his fevered brain. His suit jacket and pants got trashed but he didn't care. The art was too good. It was worth it.

He painted the dawn poking through the mountains. He painted the early morning commute. He even did a quick rendering of the cop who came to arrest him for loitering in an unsafe place of the road.

It was only then did he register that he was going to be late for the meeting.

Ever so carefully he loaded up his wet canvases in the back. It was lucky that he had become a master of this under appreciated skill. It had taken him years of ruined canvases but today, with confidence, nothing would be out of sorts despite the drive.

The paint fumes in his car were so strong that he has to speed to the meeting with the windows rolled down.

France parked his car several miles away from the building. Instead of heading straight there, he stopped by the shopping district and found a new suit. While the selection was not bad, they weren't up to his normal level of style. Really though, he had no choice so he mixed and matched to hide the fashion fauxpaus. It came out looking better then he anticipated. Most nations wouldn't even notice anyway.

With such delay France arrived late. There was quite a fuss. He could see the distain on their faces. Unfortunately, the nations had been around for so long that they could spot a hastily constructed facade from miles away. Between the novelty of his current wardrobe choice, his artfully hidden non-showered hair, unruly stubble and lack of the heavy odor of his favorite cologne, France was little more then a target to be picked apart.

"It was a fantastic night," is all France has to say as the exhaustion of staying up advanced on him now that his inspirational outlet had somewhat faded and the rigormortis of another meeting set in. He could see the assumptions as clear as day on their faces. He'd slept around. Not even one day into the meeting and he's already making a move on someone. Most roll their eyes and try to get on with life. Same old, same old kind of thing. Others try and fail to subtly canvas the room to see who the surely unwilling partner is. It is particularly unfortunate when Greece falls asleep half way through the meeting. This is a normal occurrence. The room is warm and the meeting is just that boring. Yet with France coming in the way that he did a whole new round of unspoken accusations occur.

France just plastered a soft smile onto his face. By the end of the meeting he was fairly certain that he has mastered the art of sleeping with one's eyes open.

All and all, despite the unexpected and most welcome beginning, the rest of the day was laughably normal. His exhaustion was the only excuse he could think of as the cause.

He retired early for the night. He knew that skipping meals was abhorrent for his figure but skipping sleep was worse in his book so he tucked in without a care in the world. His paintings were safe in his car.

He rose at three in the morning – a consequence of going to bed so early. Silently he stole out of the lobby and retrieved some empty canvases and paints. There was no worry about being caught so he took his leisurely time enjoying the crisp night air as he moved his supplies from the car to his room.

When he was safe once again he cracked open the paint and breathed deeply. His eyes slid shut and he returned to the special place that had kept him going these few wondrous months. It was just a touch of lips but it was so important to him.

He painted only a loon that night. It was highly stylized and, if France was honest with himself, rather odd looking. He blamed it on sleep and returned to bed for a few more hours.

X

Meetings were hell, France decided as they enter into another hour of insanity. He might not be the oldest nation out there but they certainly made him feel every one of his many years. It was not a good feeling for a nation that has had so many ups and downs in the past. Perhaps that was why tempers are always on a hair trigger at these useless get-togethers.

France's brain wandered about. His eyes discreetly roved over fashion choices and hairstyles. Again, France wished that there were more female nations so that the clothing variation would be more dramatic. The clothing evaluation process did not take very long. Really, the only thing worth mentioning was that America's new suit – for it was new because France had never seen it before and it was not like America to hold something back to save for later – was blue with red stitching. He can't decide if he hates it or if it is able to fall in to that slim area of being just the right amount of classy but trendy that makes it ok. Brown with brown would be more logical for certain and it was obvious that America was having a grand old time playing with the theme of his flag on his clothing again but the jacket alone was not so bad perhaps. It certainly gave himself something to think about instead of … whatever the hell they were talking about at the moment.

Don't get him wrong. It wasn't that England's presentation was bad or anything. (Quite the opposite in fact, especially since the nation in question was always careful to ensure that he used a textbook-broadcasting accent to ensure that the non-English speaking world could more easily understand what he was saying.) It's just France was so tired of seeing that suit again and again after all these years. It seemed as if every decade England would get a new suit that would be exactly the same as the old suit but with different buttons. It was maddening. It did, however, look like this particular reiteration was about to be retired if the way that England's favorite cufflinks were beginning to disappear into their overused buttonholes. Maybe he could manage to find a way to bribe England's tailor into a change or something. That would be nice.

It was times like these that France was glad that he could switch his English comprehension off and just let the sounds was over him. England's lips were chapped from all the talking but France new that there was no way he would pause for a drink and loosen the spell on what little of the audience he held captive. They were still nice lips though. More enticing to look at then Germany's at least. Not that Germany's lips were bad or anything. No they were quite nice too but England's disapproving grimace looked more like a child's pouty face then Germany's look-at-your-life-look-at-your-choices expression. Yes, between the two, he'll take England's lips and kiss them rosy red. They might taste faintly of tea (or alcohol depending on the timing) but they were certainly as unique as America's lips. Now those were some lips to write poems about. Beautiful lips on a beautiful face. Yet, it always seemed like America had something actually on his lips whenever France got the desire to kiss him. If it were something like donut sugar it wouldn't be so bad but stray condiments – France wasn't so keen on that. It truly felt like the only time France could catch a break with America was during Marti Gras when his inhibitions were down around his ankles.

It was truly unfair. Why must all of the nations be so beautiful? Then again, there has never been a single person France has ever met regardless of nationality, gender or body type that was not in some way beautiful in his eyes. With every lip so different – like a fingerprint – how could he not love them all and relish each new meeting. And even then – one kiss is not the same as the next. An infinite number of inspirations. He was the luckiest person in the world really. If only America would clean his lips off, or England would finish his presentation and come over to France, or Germany had sat a bit closer. If only France weren't sitting next to an empty chair and Russia who for some odd reason was content to hide his luscious, glorious, beautiful, wonderful lips away from the world behind that blasted scarf. It was almost like he knew that hiding the temptation away would be all the buffer he needed to protect from unwanted advances. Curses to the high heavens.

X

The third and final day of the meeting was no better. Again France awoke in the too early morning and again he made to paint. Alas, he was foiled when nothing would come. Not even the garbage that he normally managed when he was out of juice. It was not a good place to be.

In his mind's eye he tried frantically to recall the feel of another's lips on his own. Anyone's lips on his own. To his damnation, the fantasizing of the day before had left him without firm recollection of his last kiss. Canada's all to generous gift was gone and France had half a mind to think it was never there to begin with.

It was a depressing thought.

The day's meeting only mounted his frustrations.

Not only was he tired from not being able to go back to sleep that morning but everyone was shooting him those looks again. His head was playing tricks on him. It seemed like everyone was wearing lip-gloss or something because all of the mouths in the room looked ravishing.

In short, France took the best damn notes of his life that day to keep from jumping anyone.

The end of conference dinner with Prussia and Spain made it worse.

"When are we going to meet this person that has so thoroughly captured you interests?" said Spain about halfway through the meal. The trio had been having a good time but at that simple question France felt like he wanted to jump off a cliff. There was no person. There had never been _any_ person.

Oblivious to France's inner turmoil Prussia was quick to jump on the bandwagon.

"I know right! Why are you holding out on us?" said Prussia. "It is not like you've brought home worse before."

"Oh, I don't know," said France. This was his big chance. He could level with them and not have to deal with this conversation ever again. They were his friends, they would understand. "Why don't you come back to my place and find out for yourself." Coward. God dammit, France thought to himself, grow a spine for once. But the damage was already done. He'd done little more then affirm his image and set the duo off into a fit of giggles. Those two, they were already so committed it was painful for France to see at times. France joined them in their laughter because really, between laughing and crying, he'd rather laugh. It really just wasn't fair.

The dinner ended some time later with no further mention of relationships or sex. Most people would be surprised that these meals consisted of little more then gossip and pop culture; That they were meant to help unwind from being in a room full of uptight personalities with an axe to grind.

Of course France was never one to let sleeping dogs lie.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to come and find out?" said France to Spain as they walked out of the restaurant. He leaned in close and personal to accentuate his point. With just a bump he would be kissing the other. He was so close. "We would have a good time."

"No thanks," said Spain drawing back with a smile. "I would hate to be the reason why you ran out on your beloved."

Grasping at loose straw France turned to Prussia.

"And you?" France said. He was pouring on the seduction, trying to project every ounce of how amazing he was and how the oncoming summer was doing wonders for his people and his land.

Prussia seemed to consider it for a while before turning to Spain.

"If he's propositioning us," said Prussia. "That must mean that his lover is certainly one of the nations that has left already."

"Good catch," said Spain. "Let's see. Most of Asia has left. Vash and Roderick and Elizabeta have gone home already." Spain ticked the nations off on his fingers one by one as France slowly sank into dejection.

"It's not you or me, Ludwig's about to leave," Prussia added. "About half of Africa is gone – "

"Same for South and Central America," Spain cut in.

Prussia and Spain continued to rib France all the way back to the hotel. France just sighed and went along with it all. He should have just kissed Spain when he had the chance.

"You will never guess," said France. It was true. You can't guess something that wasn't there. Still, it was rather humorous to listen to all of the nations that it could possibly be. France would not fault them for having a good time. He knew he would do exactly the same if their positions had been reversed.

His good mood all but evaporated when he closed his hotel room door. He was confronted by the empty canvases and his demented bird painting. It was not a nice sight to come back to.

He got very little sleep that night.

As per usual he decided to leave exceedingly early the next day.

Slowly he gathered up the empty canvases and made his way down to the car.

He cursed himself for parking so far away.

He cursed himself for returning with vacant canvases to fill up his car.

He cursed himself for seeing his beautiful art.

He cursed himself for having his car smell like paint fumes.

The second trip out of the hotel with his empty shame caught him off guard.

There was Canada in the lobby of the hotel looking the world like he was waiting for France.

"Can I help you?" Canada said.

"No," responded France curtly. He didn't want Canada there seeing him. Canada was becoming a problem and Canada needed to leave so France could wallow in his misery. Canada needed to go away and then maybe France's life could go back to the pathetic excuse for normal that it was.

Seeing Canada's expression fall instantly made him regret his spiteful thoughts so he hastily added, "This is the last trip and I am off."

"Oh."

There was an awkward pause as the two nations did nothing but look at each other.

"Were you painting polar bears in the snow?" said Canada.

"What?"

"There's so much white – like a polar bear in the snow," said Canada. "It was a joke."

"Um," said France. "No they are just empty. There is nothing there."

"Oh. Sorry."

When it was evident that both were just gong to stand there and not say anything, France made a move to leave the building for good and take his shame with him back to his house. Canada let him pass without a word. He just looked at France and at the empty canvases in his arms. Just as France was to the door Canada called out.

"W-wait!"

France barely paused. He didn't even look over his shoulder at the other. He couldn't – if he did he might do something he regretted.

"Drive home safely," Canada said.

France exited the hotel.

X

True to form France's time away from the other nations between conferences was miserable. He didn't feel like working but he couldn't create either. In the beginning it wasn't so bad. He was usually a bit on the slow side getting back to work after a trying conference. But after a while his boss had begun to get frustrated (especially after such a productive stretch between conferences last time). France tried to care, really, he did. His country was his life and the government was a large part of that and he always tried his best to help and do what was right. Yet time and again he was caught staring out the window into the sunlight sighing away the hours. He tried to blame his actions on a strike – but there wasn't one at the time – or on too many school children being excited for a vacation – but the timing was a bit off for that too. In the end he was saddled with a personal secretary that was told to never leave him alone so that his production rate would actually exist. France hated it. The man was nice enough but all he did was watch France. It was creepy.

Something had to give.

It was a phone call from Austria that saved him. Never one to beat around the bush Austria cut right to the heart of the conversation after the formalities were over and done with.

"You wouldn't happen to have tickets to the symphony this Sunday would you?"

The symphony? Sunday? What?

France kicked the phrase around in his mind a bit and finally came up with an advert he had seen during lunch the other day. Something about a performance of great classical masterworks or something maybe?

Then clarity hit.

If Austria was asking. That meant that Austria wanted to go. And that he was asking France to go too. Or rather if France had tickets so he could go with France. Which meant that they would be together. Just two old empires out for a romp.

Perfect.

"Yes of course," said France. "They always hold seats for me should I chose to attend. Should I put you down on the guest list?"

Normally France would have made Austria ask again for the ticket just because he could but this was serious business. It would be all too perfect for Austria to owe him a small favor at the end of the night.

"If you insist."

"And I do," said France. "It is always enjoyable to see another nation outside of those horrid meetings, don't you think?"

"Hm."

"Besides, the music is far worth it, no?"

"I'm sure it will be a magnificent concert. I will see you at the hall on Sunday."

"Until then."

"Good bye."

Wonderful. Now France just had to ensure that he had adequate seats for the evening. Everything had to be perfect for this plan to work.

X

After a few well-placed calls France now understood why Austria was so keen on seeing the performance. In all honesty France was surprised that he had let what was sure to be a magnum opus slip out of his mind like that. Even without the added benefit of Austria being there he would have been kicking himself for years if he had missed it. Just what was his life becoming? Regardless, everything was set for the perfect reception for the two nations and their glorious outing. Things weren't good but they were certainly looking up.

X

France met Austria at the front entrance in his best tuxedo. It was a brand new creation from his very own hand just for this occasion. It made him feel fabulous and was exactly what it needed to be for the prim Austrian. Austria himself looked like he had stepped out of the history books but then again he always managed to look like that.

Tonight was for no funny business. France offered his arm to Austria and together the pair climbed the stairs to France's private box.

They were served champagne – only the finest – by a server that actually knew how to properly serve and then disappear.

The music was superb. Austria was having a grand time of it all. France was feeling better then he had in days.

Truly the stage was set for France's ploy.

Yes, the orchestra would be receiving a large, anonymous donation if everything went right tonight.

But now was the time to lose oneself to the music.

X

At the final bow France chanced a look at his evening companion. Austria seemed pleased with the event. This was good news.

Together, again like a regal couple, they descended down the stairs and into the warm night air.

"Thank you for the evening," said Austria. "It was most enjoyable."

France just couldn't help himself then.

He charged.

It was an intense kiss. All tongues and teeth and passion. Yes, you could get away with murder with a concert-high Austria.

When the pair pulled away France felt like a king. Like he had just emerged victorious from a heated battle that tried him in every way but he had triumphed over anyway. Like he was a god among men. Glory and valor to the nation that is France.

Despite his predominant blush, Austria simply gave France an amused look. France took this as a sign to swoop in again but Austria deftly avoided the second kiss.

"I do think one is plenty," said Austria. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must be going."

"It is late," countered France. "Are you sure you will not stay?"

"You naughty man, call me a cab."

The feat was easily accomplished for France. No nation ever really had trouble catching attention when they wanted to. Still, France was in just the right mindset to hope for a reward.

"Good bye, Francis," said Austria. France's triumphant high was nearly crashing when Austria spun around and firmly kissed him again. The pair lingered a bit too much.

"Thank you for the evening," said Austria. Then he was off into the night leaving France alone in his too-nice-to-be-normal clothing.

Instead of returning home immediately France chose to wander his heart for a while. It was late, he should get home, but it was a deeper, pulling need that Austria had ignited in him. He had to be sure he was in the right frame of mind before facing the world once again. He still felt powerful and strong but he couldn't go to work thinking like the empire he once was. That could be very problematic.

It would be best to paint it all out then.

X

He skipped work on Monday. He did not answer the telephone or his doorbell. Someone might have come to him during the day – breaking in … or maybe they had a key – but France was in one of his painting moods and nothing can touch him then. Whoever it was they left. He doesn't blame them. He was painting war. Not some idyllic landscape but nasty, bloody, hurtful scenes of violence and pain. He was bleeding out through his paintbrushes. It was all ok though. Not everything could always be nice. What was life without lows as a yard sick to measure the highs?

X

Tuesday was normal. So was the rest of the week. In fact, he was so productive that he managed to get his office gargoyle reassigned to someplace else.

Inside he knew that he was probably all out of inspiration again but at least he did not have the burning desire to paint (or any other creative pursuits really). No, he was content to bask in how miserably perfect his scenes of suffering were. Once they all dried he knew just where to hang them too – in the back room of his gallery, where all the others like them were.

Yes, there was a tentative peace for France. And that was a victory in and of itself.

X

The next conference was in Japan. Those were always a pain for the majority of Europe but it was only fair to spread the stress of hosting a conference around for everyone to enjoy. Alas, due to the location France was unable to bribe his way into getting a room someplace far away from the other nations. Instead, they were all on the same several floors of one hotel.

France had little hope for not only finding someone to kiss but also keeping his art a secret at the same time. To top it off the new version of the unofficial guidelines for keeping the peace had not only bolded but also underlined text about being courteous to the neighbors and not having amours relations at all hours of the night. He knew it was not a rib directly towards him but he still felt singled out nonetheless.

X

The meeting was an unusual one. It wasn't so much that Hungary was giving him looks that promised pain and death in a slow excruciating way but rather New Zealand giving him a look like he had grown three heads without noticing. That was highly unusual to say the least.

France kept trying to catch the other's eye and start a silent conversation to explain this oddity but the other managed to evade such attempts. That was also highly unusual.

It was enough to keep him distracted for the first half of the meeting at least.

When lunch break was finally called, France made a move to confront New Zealand (before he could get killed by Hungary).

He didn't get very far before he ran right into Canada.

"Sorry, Mathieu," said France. "I was hoping to talk to New Zealand before I left for lunch."

"Never mind," said Canada. "I wont keep you then."

"No. No." France said. "I have missed my window of opportunity."

"Sorry."

"It is quite alright. I will have another chance another day. I was simply meant to be."

"I wanted to give this to you," Canada said. He pulled a package out of his briefcase handed France something square and wrapped in shiny paper with the repeating image of Monet's Water Lilies. There was no bow or tag but it was wrapped nicely. "Don't open it here." France's head shot up at that. Goodness only knew what he was holding if Canada didn't want him to open it in public. "Maybe wait until you leave for lunch. Or even when you get back to your hotel room."

"Of course," said France. He needed to open it now. He had to see what was inside. "Whatever you wish Mathieu. Thank you in advance."

"Yeah."

They stood there awkwardly for a few moments. (It was becoming a pattern that France didn't like but couldn't seem to avoid). He was dying to know what was in the package but would hold to his word. Canada was refusing to look at France in the eyes while still trying to be polite and look at France.

The situation was broken by the Netherlands poking his head back into the meeting room. France saw him eye up the situation taking in the package and the distance between the two nations before calling Canada's attention to him.

"Matt, I thought you were coming," he said.

Canada came to with a start and suddenly tilted toward France pressing their lips together. If France hadn't known any better it would have looked just like a hug. Canada then waved France a quick goodbye and beat a hasty retreat.

"Sorry Lars, I was just taking care of something."

Whatever else Canada said was lost when the door shut.

Did that actually just happen?

All thoughts of the package were out of France's mind. It hung there loosely in his outstretched hand.

Was he just kissed?

Again?

By Canada?

France didn't know what to think.

He'd figure it out during the meeting.

Maybe.

Only then did he remember Canada's package growing heavy in his hand. There was no one else around. It was technically lunch. He was going to open it.

He bustled back to his briefcase and gingerly used his letter opener to cut the tape apart. He normally didn't save wrapping paper but for some reason he was compelled to take special care of the parcel. Bit by bit the item inside was unfurled.

It was a note taking folio much like the one France already had.

That was not what France was expecting. He was almost disappointed.

At least the cover material was nice enough and matched his briefcase.

Maybe there was something inside.

He opened the folder and was stunned into shock.

It wasn't just some inane business thing to help him keep stock of his notes.

It was a sketchbook.

A very high quality sketchbook.

A very high quality sketchbook that from the outside looked exactly like the object that he took notes in.

It was perfect.

But surely Canada could not possibly have made the connection.

France's hand subconsciously drifted up toward his lips.

Maybe there was more to this then what met the eye.

Carefully France placed his new gift where his notebook should go and shoved the other into his briefcase.

It truly looked like nothing had changed in the meeting room.

Incredible.

X

Lunch was too short for France's liking.

Instead of eating at a nice restaurant as he had planed, he grabbed some easy street vendor food and set out looking for some good pens or paints or something. The sketchbook was truly perfect because he could freely doodle in public and people would just think he was refining his notes. Then, when alone, he could switch writing utensils for something more artsy and colorful and paint the town red. Being in close quarters with the other nations, by default, then, was no problem. Fantastic.

France managed to find a small art supply store. It trended towards catering to Japan's mighty fortress of manga and anime creators. It was perfect for France. He got what he needed and it was all discrete enough to fit into an office-looking pencil case so that no one was the wiser. He might actually be able to pull this off. He even had the right stimulation to boot.

The return to the meeting was hasty. He wound up being a bit more windblown then he would have liked and that got some looks because when does he not look fabulous.

It didn't really bother him though. It was time to test out the urban camouflage. He grabbed a pen and started writing "notes" just like normal.

Just like he thought, Canada's parting gift came to mind instantly (along with all of the confusion about whether or not it was a kiss or some sort of bodily malfunction). France let the confusion flow as he sketched. He had to be extra careful that he didn't actually look like he was sketching but France felt like he did a really good job with the subterfuge.

Once or twice he caught Canada's eye from afar. The other blushed and looked down almost immediately. So it seems that Canada could tell that he was using his present. Seeing as he was all but an accomplice in this whole turn of events, France was sure that the other would not rat him out. Probably. New Zealand too seemed to be behaving high on the hog as well. Ear to ear grin directed at France from that one. No bother, France was sketching the meeting away without a care in the world. He didn't even take England's bate or catch the bemused look that darkened quickly from the other nation when he failed to do so.

The meeting ended much like meetings are wont to do among nations – with a blaze of fire and glory. No one was rushed to the hospital but everyone was quick to disperse anyway.

France was at a loss when it came to dinner. Lunch had worn off a long while ago but he was not interested in dining with company. As such a bar situation would be perfect to fit his mood. But the true question was – sushi bar or ramen bar. In the end he went for the sushi because he knew that America and Japan always liked to do ramen on the first day of a conference when they were at Japan's house. He didn't want to risk running into them and whoever else America managed to invite along.

The sushi at the place France found was delectable. National dishes always tasted better in the house of that nation anyway. As an added bonus the chef knew just the kind of atmosphere that France was looking for and left the nation largely alone with his food. Even the couple at the end of the bar were being mostly quite and respectful.

The niceness ended when a green sleeve with familiar cufflinks in too warn out holes entered France's vision. England had come to rain on his parade. Blast it all.

Two could play at this game.

France decidedly ignored England and the favor was returned. Just when France was about to pay and leave (and without a word uttered to the other) England set another plate of artfully crafted rolls at France's place.

Down comes the hammer. So much for getting off scot free.

"Whatever you think you are doing – stop it," said England in low tones.

As far as battlegrounds went, this sushi bar was not a bad place. Neither of them could get up to too much without rousing the other patrons and risk a potential incident to be picked up by the media. This was the safest idea France had had in a long time actually.

"I assure you I do not know what you mean," replied France.

"Our mutual friend Lars has shared some concerning facts with me."

"Ah."

"That's all you have to say for yourself?"

"No. I just fail to see where this conversation is going."

"In the past I have tolerated your advances – "

"You miss me. How cute."

"Can it. I think nothing of the sort. My concern is only for my brother."

"Me thinks the lady doth protest too much."

"If we were any place else you would have a broken nose by now."

"He advanced first."

"That is beside the point!" said England. He slammed his hand down to punctuate the sentence drawing the entire bar's attention. Upon realization he turned a lovely shade of red and apologized profusely. Once everyone was settled back down and no longer paying attention to the two foreigners, England continued.

"That is beside the point. The fact is that you engaged and you being you makes it your fault."

"I know what you think of me but that is an illogical correlation."

"I beg to differ."

"Then we are at odds."

The pair sat in silence for a few moments chewing their food. Despite the civil tones of the conversation both were already at wits end with the other.

"You are most unlike yourself as of late," said England.

"That is not true."

"Yes it is."

"N - "

"Let me finish," England said. He paused for a bit and then started right in again. "Nearly two conference now and we have yet to get in a fight."

"Most would consider that progress, Arthur."

"You have failed to invade my house in nearly all that time as well too."

"You are complaining?"

There was a long pause.

"No. I am glad," said England. "But I also know that your attentions do not last."

"You wound me."

"It is true. How can you expect me to take this seriously when you are cavorting about with Roderick?"

"Are you giving me a by?"

"Of course not. If you hurt him I will rend you apart molecule by molecule and ensure you never walk this earth again."

"That still sounds like a by to me."

"It is _not_. You are happier then I have seen you in a long time. It is unusual. I want to know what is going on."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"I don't know."

"You bast – " France cut England of with a quick move of his hand.

"Let reason speak," said France. "Regard my actions before you judge as you always do."

France took a moment to collect himself. Maybe it was the setting. Maybe it was something else but he could not believe that they had even gotten this far in a conversation about _feelings_ of all things without someone dying.

"I cannot tell you because I don't honestly know. Whatever this is, it not coming from my end at all but I can't seem find myself to care. Is he pursuing me? Perhaps. We have kissed several times, I think. He gave me a wonderful gift today. I do not know what is going on but it is nice."

"Just as I suspected," said England.

"You're not killing me. This is not as I suspected," said France.

"His attention is doing you good. If what you say is true, that is. And I think we've known enough of each other to know when we are lying. Therefore, I have no reason to stop you and him."

"I am not supporting this," England continued. "But I support him and if that means giving it a go then I will. Don't fuck up."

England left without another word after that. France finished his last bite before it dawned on him that England left him to pay the combined bill.

X

The next day at the conference was surreal. France was no idiot. He could tell that the majority of the shock came from the Common Wealth. Somehow the lot of them were aware that England had confronted France last night and that both had emerged not only sober but entirely unharmed. Idly France wondered where they had gotten all of their information. That passing thought was quickly replaced when France saw the Netherlands across the hallway. He didn't think much of approaching him. He didn't even pause when he clearly interrupted the conversation the group the Netherlands was in stopped cold.

"Thanks for that last night," said France to the Netherlands. There was a bit too much empire in that phrase and the surrounding nations instantly recoiled at the harsh words. France turned and left before the situation could get any further out of hand. He knew he was going to get in trouble for that one but the look England had given him afterwards was well worth it. Many may consider the age of chivalry to be dead but when it comes to relationships, England was still very old fashioned. If France was going to consider this madness he had at least better start out on the right foot by defending Canada's honor and voicing disapproval of slanderous talk behind his back. Come to think of it, he is sure that the only reason why he had gotten off so lucky last night was because England knew him so well as to properly evaluate what the Netherlands had told him. (At least he hoped that was the case.)

Canada was positively glowing when he noticed France using the hidden sketchbook for the second day in a row. It was enough of an out of place reaction for those that knew and paid attention to Canada that even America noticed. Now _that_ was a conversation France was not looking forward to at all.

He was left with such an uncomfortable thought for the first half of the meeting. Canada's phantom kiss had done him well last night but he wasn't doing too well on this new day.

Maybe a lunch with Canada could help him out and clear some thing up in the process?

X

Lunch with Canada that day would not come. The minute the break was called England had all but bodily carried Canada out of the room despite what looked like ardent protest.

It was both disappointing and puzzling. Or at least it was until France felt a big, heavy arm settle around his shoulders.

"Hey Francis," said America. "I was thinking we could get lunch together today. We haven't talked in a while."

France repressed the urge to shudder at just what this lunch might entail.

"Of course," said France. He tried and failed to slip out of America's grip.

This was going to be ugly.

X

The duo made their way out of the building, across the street and directly to the nearest McDonalds.

America ordered for the pair of them. France knew at that point he was probably dead.

The food was ready quick as a whip and America found them a secluded table in the back. They sat across from each other so that their knees knocked awkwardly together.

America was two burgers in (France had not taken a bite) before the conversation started.

"I'm not going to kill you yet," America said. That was both good and bad with the promise of turning worse. "I kinda thought Arthur was going to flip shit when he figured out what was going on last night but seeing as you are not dead you must've checked out ok."

France didn't say anything. He didn't know where this conversation was going.

"Scrape your jaw off the floor man! Matthew is like a neighbor that always keeps his blinds up. How could you not know that I knew?" said America.

"But I didn't even know," said France. He figured the best course of action was to be as frank as possible. With a clear stance, he might make it out alive. Hopefully.

"I know right! That's what makes it hilarious," continued America. "I was about ready to bust your chops for that stunt with Roderick but Mattie said that he hadn't told you yet. Bee Tee Dubs, I feel it is my righteous duty as a bro to inform you that he's been like stalking you for a while now."

"What?"

"He's been trying to say something for a while. I really thought the 80s were going to be the straw that broke the camel's back but it never happened," said America. He continued on despite the fact that France's eyebrows were vanishing into his hairline. "He always gets up super early to try and catch you during conferences and at first I thought it was just jet lag and then I figured it out but he totally thought you and Arthur were a thing and there is no way he would mess something up like that so he was doing a classic Hollywood pining from afar bit for ever. I don't know what got it through his head that you and Arthur are just bros for life like him and I are. Funny huh?"

"How is it that I am still alive after going through the both of you two?" said France. It was the billion-dollar question that France could not get out of his head.

"Because you can bet your ass that a giant ball of Canadian rage moose is not a fun thing to deal with. You dick this up and then we'll have a problem but until then, a man's gotta live his own life."

"But what if I mess up?" France was going for broke here and between England's wrath and America's wrath there is no winning answer but at the very least he had to voice his misgivings to someone before it was too late.

"Do you want to mess up?"

"No! I – Never have I – "

"Francis. You are the country of love. Lay off everyone else and just give him your all. If you can't do that then get out of my sight."

"There isn't any body else, Alfred."

"Bullshit."

"There hasn't been for a very long time."

There was a pregnant pause as America sized France up and weighed the words.

"Jesus. You're serious."

"Yes."

"Holy fuck."

"That is enough now thank you."

"You guys can be awkward together then."

"I am not awkward."

"You kiddin'. This is very awkward. And it just got a whole new level of awkward."

"Don't laugh at me."

"Aw shoot. I'm not. You two are made for each other. Peas in a pod."

"Your confidence is not inspiring."

"And here I thought I was going to have to tell you I'm armed to the teeth at all hours of the day and night with a massive espionage network everywhere that will alert me if you ever get handsy when he doesn't want you to be."

"I am perfectly aware of my horrible reputation."

"That's pathetic."

"Is this conversation over?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I am serious. Remember, me and mama bear have his back. Do things right and you will have it made. Mess it up and you'll have wished you died as an empire."

"Right."

"Well. Go on. Get out of here and go find your prince charming."

France all but sprinted for the exit.

X

France did not go find Canada right away. Instead he took the time to look at his life and look at his choices.

He was worried. Not just of messing the whole thing up but about a whole host of other things too.

His heart was light – it is not every day that you find out that someone has longstanding burning affections for you. Better still they acted with the maturity and grace to not be creepy about it or pressuring you into anything. If that wasn't enough to be the balm of a sunny day on France's parched soul then nothing was.

But it wasn't only that.

France wanted to care out of feelings like love and respect. Yet the nagging voice in the back of his head kept talking about how wonderful it would be to have someone to kiss whenever he felt like it.

That simply would not do.

France wanted no part in such an unhealthy relationship.

To be used and abused in such a way. Why, that would make his horrible reputation one step closer to being accurate.

Truly, it was an awful situation.

So France spent the day searching his heart. He weighed every instance and every interaction. Could he really claim a dept of feeling or was it just his muse trying to break from its curse in any way possible?

Damn it was hard.

He walked very far that day (afternoon portion of the meeting be dammed).

That night he dined alone. In the middle of the oldest part of town.

It was a nice little place and it served wine (American wine, but that is life).

Night had completely fallen by the time he got back to the hotel.

All his thinking had done him a bit of good but didn't resolve many of his problems.

He wanted a relationship with Canada. Or at least to try for one. Pining for so long was unhealthy and France owed it to the other to at least give it a shot. More then that, he wanted to feel intimately loved by another and to love another in return. The impact that Canada had on his life in those few instances where he had reached out were proof of that enough.

It would be a challenge. France would not initiate any kisses. No matter how much he wanted to (or could steal them). He would let Eskimo kisses slide. Holding hands and hugging was great. Anything beyond that would be at Canada's pace.

France refused to whore another person out to his muse – even if it killed him inside.

"Francis!"

France's head snapped up and out of his inner workings at the all-too-familiar shout of his name. Canada bowled into him the moment he was through the doors of the hotel lobby.

"I am so sorry! You were gone at the meeting and then Alfred said you two had had a chat over lunch. He's such an idiot and I ripped him a new one. He just get's it in his head that he can help and sometimes that's ok but this is just a whole new level of awkward and I'm really sorry you had to find out like that," said Canada.

"I should have brought you flowers," France said.

"What?"

They both just looked at each other for a moment. Canada with an expression of incredulous shock and France in self-pity that he had responded in such an oafish way.

"Flowers," said France. The situation wasn't going to get any better so he might as well backtrack and hope it all turned out. "You have been doing so many nice things for me lately and I have not been myself enough to connect the dots together. Now that I have it, only seems fair as a declaration of equal intent."

"_Really?_"

"Of course! Don't sell yourself short. Those moments have been really important to me."

"Oh! Well. Don't kill any flowers on my behalf. They look better in the ground anyway."

"Hmm."

"And here I though Alfred really managed to screw this up."

"Not at all."

"We are talking about the same Alfred, right? He did tell you that I like you."

"Yes. Very clearly."

"That I _like you_ like you. Like that, yanno?"

"Arthur too."

"Jesus. Fuck. Really?"

"Really," said France.

"Gosh. Now I feel bad for shredding Alfred so bad."

There was more silence as Canada fought the urge rub the growing blush on the back of his neck. He settled instead for shuffling his feet. France's little half smile wasn't helping matters either.

"This is not how I envisioned this going," said Canada sheepishly.

"Me either – I am supposed to be suave and sweep you off your feet and take you out to eat good food and go see wonderful, beautiful things but to not bring flowers for you apparently and just show you that I care. Instead we are in the entryway of the hotel at two in the morning. What has become of us?"

The last bit was said with such a flair for the dramatic that the pair burst out laughing at the whole situation.

"Come," said France. "It is late and we still have tomorrow to get though."

"Oh don't remind me!"

"May I escort you to your room?" France offered the other his arm and Canada took it promptly.

"Of course fine sir," said Canada with as much regality as he could muster. Which was actually quite a bit all things considered. The whole situation was enough to set them into another fit of giggles as they made their way to the elevator and up to the floor Canada indicated was his.

Things got awkward again when they reached the door.

"Um," said Canada. "Thanks. For everything. You really made the night better then I could have hoped for."

"Be sure to thank Alfred for helping," said France.

"Oh God, why did you have to remind me?" Canada replied. "I probably made him cry, the big softie."

"Are we talking about the same Alfred?" France said. They both chuckled a bit at the repeat of an earlier phrase.

"Haha. Hey, see you for breakfast tomorrow?"

"I would love that," said France. "Are you sure that I can steal you away from Alfred?"

"Yep; He always spends the last day with Arthur."

"Then it is a date."

It was only at that point France could tell Canada was stalling for a kiss. Oh how France wanted to give him that kiss. But no. He would be strong. Still…he could not disappoint the other or make him think his affections were false.

In a strategic move France reached out and grabbed Canada's hand. Ever so slowly he bowed a bit at the waist and kissed the well-worn hand (clearly hockey, farm work and war had taken their toll).

Upon righting himself France was please to see Canada's red face.

They parted like that. France sauntered down the hallway (knowing that Canada was watching the whole way).

Yes. This felt right.

X

France was beside himself.

He had no idea what power on this earth had possessed him to agree to date Canada.

Everything in his life was just some cruel practical joke.

He had been stood up.

They had agreed upon breakfast. It was an easy choice really because the hotel provided it.

France had been waiting in the lobby since 5AM for his date to arrive. It was now 8AM. The meeting stared in an hour.

Curses and damnation.

It all wasn't fair.

At this point he'd seen just about everyone come and go from the breakfast area – everyone except for Canada.

France gave his coffee the best glare he could manage. It was more of a pathetic wither then anything really. France didn't feel up for much more then that.

It wasn't too much longer before he was greeted by the face of death.

That might be a bit too harsh.

Canada, pale skin horrifically accentuated by the tell tale signs of sleep deprivation under his eyes, had been unceremoniously plopped into the chair across from France by America.

"Watch him for me will you?" said America before darting off.

It was all the clearance France needed to openly gape at his dining companion. Canada's eyes were little more then half open slits gazing off into the great abyss of nothingness directly through France. Despite wearing a waistcoat, France could tell that the dress shirt underneath had been improperly buttoned up – there was a shirttail hanging out on the left side for crying out loud. Also, if France knew anything about hair, he would swear up and down that Canada was sporting that telltale day-old grease and sleep mussed look. It was most unusual if France were to review the image of the man in front of him with all of the other conference days France had ever had the misfortune of attending.

Just as France finished his stunned assessment America had retuned with an armful of plates and drinks.

"Sorry about that," said America. "I just got it out of him that he was meeting you this morning."

Canada had yet to react to America's presence – or the food – or anything really. France could not help but voice his concern.

"Is he ok?"

"Oh yeah. He's a morning person but not a morning person yanno?"

"No," said France.

"Well, he likes to – god dammit Matt, take the cup already!" America forcibly grabbed Canada's hand and brought it to the nearest cup of coffee on the table.

Ever so slowly Canada's attention somewhat focused in on the cup and his fingers curled around the mug like a botched piece of stop motion animation.

"Finally," said America. "Sorry about that. He's not normally this bad. He usually goes to bed on the earlier side and then gets up for a few hours in the middle of the night and then goes back to bed and gets up early with me to eat breakfast and then zones out for a few more hours after that."

"That's not normal," said France. His attention was not really on America but on Canada who had imperceptibly moved the coffee mug closer to his person.

"I figured it was like aurora activity or something that whacks him out. Missing that first round of sleep last night really put a wrench in things. Don't worry though – he'll snap out of it in a few minutes."

"Really now?" said France. Canada had the mug up to his lips. France, despite having never taken his eyes of the other, had no idea how that feat actually occurred though.

"Sure! Coffee fixes everything."

"This looks pretty bad."

"Naw – this isn't half bad at all. Normally breakfast is just an OJ and milk kind of thing. Add in the coffee and he'll be a spark plug before too long. Heck, I'll probably get reamed for not giving him tea when he wants to start bouncing off the walls in a few hours."

"I'm pretty sure coffee doesn't do that."

"It does for him. Me too a bit. Helps us tap into the millions of coffee addicts and get a usually unfelt pick me up that can get kinda insane."

"G'morn,'" said Canada. That drew both nations' attentions instantly. The mug was empty and back on the table. Canada's eyes had regained a bit of focus but he still wasn't all there yet.

"It. Is. ALIVE," said America with all the Hollywood charm of a really bad B-film.

"Hoser" came the sleep slurred and muffled response.

"Here comes the snark!" said America. "Better watch out. He's gonna – OWW! Dude, you didn't have to kick me. Geez."

"You're too loud," Canada said. By now he'd pulled a plate over to his seat (another move France had missed) and was digging in. With every hoovering bite France could see the lucidity returning to the other nation.

Nothing but the sound of munching was heard at the table for a long few minutes.

It was only when France had snatched a piece of buttered toast from the communal plate that Canada seemed to fully register his presence.

"Oh man," said Canada. He drug his hand down his face and pressed his palms to his eyes. America just snickered. "Francis. What kind of failure of a date am I?"

"Aww, your first domestic," America cut in.

"You need to stop obsessing over Arthur's shows," Canada said to America. Then to France he said, "I'm really sorry."

"True, it is not the picture perfect date," said France. "But I am glad to be able to share the meal with you even when it is such an inconvenience for you."

"I'm normally not this bad," Canada said.

"Alfred has informed me," said France.

"Meeting starts in 10 minutes," America cut in after he finished an exaggerated final gulp of OJ. America then stood up and headed for the door leaving the other two alone.

"We should go," Canada said with a sigh.

"Yes," agreed France. "Here. I got something for you."

France shuffled around under the table leaving Canada to wonder what it could possibly be. France sat back up but his hands were still under the table.

"I could not get you a potted plant for customs would be miserable for you. This isn't the same but I hope you like it," said France. He handed Canada a bouquet of leaves. "They are all freshly fallen. Not picked at all."

"Well thanks, Francis," said Canada. "What'd you do – go around and shake a bunch of trees or something?"

"Or something." Canada laughed at that.

"You do realize that Alfred left us to deal with all of his plates," said Canada. The mirth had dwindled but the air was still somewhat charged.

"What a sneaky man," France said.

Together France and Canada cleared off the table and went to the meeting. They held hands the whole way there. It was nice.

It stopped being nice when they entered the meeting room. It wasn't a full house yet but seeing two nations coming in holding hands was always enough to cause quite a stir. For all the better that Canada looked, he still appeared visibly tired and ruffled.

The whispers started almost immediately.

France sprung away from Canada as if he burned when the whispers caught his ears. Canada gave him an odd look but both went their separate ways to their places without further comment.

It didn't get much better after that. Any joy that France could get from casting smiles at Canada was quashed by renewed whispers. France supposed the only good thing to come out of the situation is that England and America were not among the whisperers. For once. Shocking really.

Needless to say nothing really got done during the meeting.

Lunch break was a welcome relief. He was nearly reunited with Canada when suddenly France was being propelled backward. He was out the door courtesy of Prussia and Spain before he could really figure out what had happened. They bustled him all the way to a nearby restaurant despite his protests.

"How come you didn't tell us Matthew was your lover?" Spain said once they had ordered.

"Secrets don't make friends," Prussia added.

Both were spending an inordinate amount of time critically evaluating France as if he were some foreign entity.

"We have not slept together," said France. He knew Canada (and most certainly America) would kill him in his sleep if he spread any rumors now.

"Then why did he look so tired today?" asked Spain.

"No, that's just mostly normal, morning Matthew," said Prussia. Both France and Spain shot him confused looks. "What? I have friends other then you guys."

Neither Spain nor France said anything.

"Un-awesome. See if I every buy you a round of drinks again," Prussia continued.

"That's still not an explanation," said France.

"Matthew is a bad ass. That's all there is to it. I mean seriously, what kind of a nation gets an empire to willing grant it freedom. Or could live next to Alfred and not get squashed. Or do all that he did during pick-a-20th-century-war?" said Prussia. "I decided it would be worth my while to check him out and when I got to his house he was high as a kite, beat the snot out of me and then served me food. I see him about every other month now for beers."

"You never told us that," said France.

"Yeah, 'Friends don't keep secrets,'" Spain added.

"He's been there for a lot of my un-awesome moments," Prussia said. "Don't lose him Francis – you'll never find anyone better among us. I mean, he's crazy but he makes it all work."

"I still haven't figured out how it all happened honestly," France said.

"Then count your lucky stars," said Spain.

"Dudes! There he is now!" Prussia cut in.

Sure enough. Canada could be seen walking down the street just outside of their restaurant. Before France could do anything Prussia got a most devious smile on his face and sprinted out to redirect the other nation.

In no time at all Canada was seated at the table with the trio.

"Hi Francis, Antonio," said Canada. "Gil said you wanted a fourth person for company and this looks like a place with better food then McDonalds."

"He's blowing off Alfred to eat with us," said Prussia. "Told you he was crazy!"

"No I'm not," Canada countered. "It's not like he's an angry polar bear or something."

"But we all know you got tons of experience dealing with that shit too," Prussia said.

"Are you sure you and Alfred don't take notes from each other?" Canada asked Prussia.

Everyone had a good laugh at that. All and all the lunch conversation was really lightweight and France felt please that his friends and Canada got along so well.

He just wanted to reach over and kiss the other.

But he wouldn't.

X

Canada left him with a peck on the cheek when the four returned to the meeting room. It was only halfway on France's lips (a happy accident on France's part at least) but it made him want to crow or pass out or sing songs to the heavens.

Even that overly simple gesture was enough to fuel France's creative ability through the whole meeting.

X

He dined with Canada that evening. While it was unusual that Prussia and Spain had made themselves scarce on the last meeting day, France could only think it was out of some misguided idea to get him and Canada alone for an actual date.

"You drew during the meeting today, didn't you?" Canada said. It was a non-judgmental and unassuming statement but France felt himself prickling when his secret was bared so openly. Even if it was Canada and they were together now, France had held his art so close to his heart that he didn't think it would ever be comfortable to openly share with another.

"Yes. Yes I did."

"Cool. I'm glad you like my gift."

France was stunned.

He'd expected a request to see his artwork. Or worse yet, for him to draw something on the spot. It wasn't like that though. Canada let sleeping dogs lie. France did his best to not let the surprise bleed onto his face. Instead when Canada smiled at him he smiled back. It was unexpected and wonderful.

Despite having a luxuriously slow meal and walking through town a bit, the pair made it back to the hotel on the earlier side.

"I suppose you won't be needing me to help you out in the morning," said Canada.

France again started at the blatant reminder of his art habit. For so many conferences Canada had been helping him leave in the morning. With just the notebook that would be unnecessary.

"You are right. I still have a very early flight though. Do not feel the need to get up to see me out."

"Yeah. I'm no good at goodbyes like that."

The pair walked in silence to Canada's room, again pausing awkwardly at the door.

"Can I call you when I get home?" Canada said.

"Of course. Call whenever you can," said France. "I mean it."

"Sure."

"Good night, Mathieu," said France.

"Good night. Good luck."

Despite the send off both stood in front of the door for just a moment longer. It would be a long while before they could see each other again. It was the life of nations but just because that was a reality didn't mean that either wanted to leave the other at this moment.

France smiled at Canada one last time before turning to leave. A strong arm spun him around on his shoulder and before he could retaliate Canada's lips were on his own.

Lips meshed. Breath mixed.

France didn't know how long they spent kissing before his brain registered that this was just the sort of thing he couldn't get attached to if this relationship was to work comfortably. Canada's tongue coming out to play squashed any hesitance France had soon after the thought.

After so long they parted, chests heaving to replenish air-deprived lungs, eyes glassy from the intense feeling.

"Good night," said Canada. He then turned and quietly shut the door behind him. France continued to stand in the hallway for what was probably an inappropriate amount of time just zoning out at the door.

Eventually he quirked a crooked smile and returned to his own room. His sketchbook was inconveniently at the bottom of his briefcase so he simply turned in for the night instead. He did have an early flight after all.

X

His flight was fairly empty.

France felt at his leisure to draw and sigh and think about Canada.

He filled the whole sketchbook on the way back.

The stewardess had even told him that every thing he drew was a masterwork fit for a museum.

France just smiled and tried to think of where to put his newest collection in his gallery.

X

It was a few days before Canada called France. (Not that he had been counting.)

Night had fallen and France had just settled into a luxurious bubble bath when his phone had shouted at him. He considered himself lucky that he had remembered to leave the infernal device within arm's reach while soaking.

The sound alone from Canada's voice left him dizzy and breathless. He let the tones caress and twirl about him as they talked about inconsequential things just to continue talking to each other. Even as the bathwater grew less warm and the lights of Paris slowly shut for the night, France could feel Canada there with him enjoying the twinkling stars and the large moon hung about his window.

France used up his entire collection of oil pastels that night.

X

The next call was also unexpected.

France was enjoying his morning coffee and newspaper.

It was early. Very early.

But France always enjoyed getting the first loaf of bread straight out of the oven from the bakery down the street.

It was the time he used to focus in on the day. Japan had called it meditating but France liked to think of it as just another castoff from when he tilled his land with his hands or rose with the sun to fish or hunt.

The phone ringing startled him so bad that he nearly spilled his coffee.

His ill temper vanished as Canada's voice came tripping over the wires.

After a stern lecture about time zones and getting enough sleep the conversation became quite pleasant. Honestly, France would not be surprised if it would rain flowers and rainbows later in the day.

He was late to his morning budget meeting with his boss. It was so worth it.

As an added bonus he again could not stop thinking about Canada and their kisses. He daydreamed his way through the day. One of his ministers got rather upset about that but he managed to shut everyone up by producing a stunning display of an impressionist group portrait of everyone in the room. He's pretty sure the next time he sees that particular piece of art it will be framed in the meeting room. That's what he gets for turning the back of a fiscal report into a canvas for his creative genius.

X

The third time they connected on the phone it was France's boss' fault. He had to do something or other and talk it over with Canada for some reason or other. (Honestly the man should have told him the task first and then said who the nation was because then France would at least know why he was calling. Instead he just tuned out the minute he learned he had to call Canada.)

The work portion of the call was finished in three sentences. They then spent the next five hours getting crazy long distance call fees on the landline just catching up despite having talked only a few days prior.

Afterwards France went home feeling so elated at having gotten away with taking a personal call for so long during working hours that he spent most of the evening and night crafting a massive art nouveau mural on the back side of his corner bakery. Sure it was graffiti and technically illegal but it looked beautiful and it wasn't harming anyone. Simply beautifying the area really.

X

The fourth time Canada talked to France was to set up a Skype date for dinner. It was unexpected (as always) but a true novelty for France. He hauled out his underused laptop and got to enjoy Canada's company in as close to the flesh as he would get until the next meeting. Canada enjoyed his Sheppard's pie and France ate his chicken and salad. They talked and laughed and enjoyed the company.

At the end of the evening, just as France was using up the last of his rouge and aqua oils, France gave a silent prayer of thanks for the technology enabling him to speak and see so freely a person so very dear to him from so far away.

X

The next meeting was in Canada. France had gotten some extra leave time to spend with the nation at the end of the conference and that was cause for celebration.

Hoping for the best he secured a new sketchbook in his notebook folder and set out.

It's not that they had never had each other over at the other's house before but it felt different now that they were an item.

They were skype-ing when France had told Canada the news. Canada had been so please that at the end of the conversation he had blown France a kiss. That had never really happened before but France could swear he could feel those phantom lips lingering on his.

Whatever it was, it enabled him to sketch on the flight over making the trip significantly more bearable.

X

Canada kissed him when he got off the plane. It was short but just as good as France remembered. If Canada wanted to kiss him he certainly wasn't one to complain.

Canada had even remembered to get France a room away from everyone else.

This was looking to be the best conference ever.

X

It was three in the morning when France returned from his clandestine art supply gathering excursion.

He was shocked to find Canada in the lobby.

"Do you need help?" Canada said.

Recalling what America had told him about Canada's sleeping habits, France knew that he was not the reason Canada was sitting in the lobby. Still, weary of the situation, France allowed Canada to assist. It would have looked shameful to refuse only to drop everything with a few more steps. It was a miracle he had made it this far laden with canvases and paints to begin with.

Canada left him that night with a silent goodbye kiss.

It took all of what was left of France's good sense to go to bed and start the next day right.

X

France did not see Canada at breakfast. He was about to be disappointed but then he saw America packing some serious quantities of food over to the elevator and admitted to himself that seeing Canada at a conference breakfast was an unusual occurrence to begin with anyway.

France doodled all through the meeting anyway. Just simple, airy things. Pretty minimalist but still high quality.

France reversed tactics for the afternoon session. He strived for detail and creative use of negative space. It was a challenge but with the backing of the Great White North on his side, France was invincible against his blank pages.

In all honesty the whole conference flew by and before France knew it he not only had spent a lot of time with Canada (and everyone else he normally spends time with during meetings) but also filled his room with artwork and as an added bonus managed to finish the conference without a hitch.

Just as the nations were departing Germany caught France's attention.

"Whatever you are doing keep doing it," said Germany.

"What on Earth are you talking about?" said France.

"Not once did you or Arthur get in to a fight – verbally or otherwise," Germany said. "Sure there was some sniping but I am beginning to think that one or both of you is on drugs. Finally. Keep it up and we just might be productive."

"Thank you?" said France. Germany paid him no mind though. He had moved on through the crowd leaving France to puzzle over his words. France turned about to see if he could find Canada and instead caught England laughing hysterically at a retreating German back. Their eyes caught across the crowd briefly before the two were swallowed back up in the mass exodus.

France finally found Canada waiting outside of his hotel room.

"Ready to go to my place?" said Canada.

France was about to respond when he remembered the piles of canvases in his room. Most of them were wet still. He was also pretty sure he had absolutely trashed the sink when rinsing out his brushes.

There was physically no way that France could avoid Canada seeing it all.

Brilliant.

Just brilliant.

"We might have a bit of a problem," said France. He barely caught Canada's concerned face when he turned to open the hotel room door.

"Ah," said Canada.

"Yes. Ah," repeated France. He could see how Canada's eyes roved over his work. Some seascapes and harbors, one of his house in Paris, several of unidentified people. It was his soul come to bear in front of another.

It was an uncomfortable feeling.

"Well?" said France. He knew that this was probably too much for Canada to handle despite having seen his artistic fall out in half ferreted away states after previous conferences. France was really waiting for the other shoe to drop. Canada just continued his circle around the room to see all of the art.

"Amazing," said Canada. "You are brilliant you know that."

Despite France's dread he still preened a bit under the compliment.

"This is no problem at all," Canada continued. "I brought my SUV. I can even get the hotel staff to let us use the back entrance."

Canada then turned to see France's bewildered face. He reached out and patted France on the cheek.

"See," said Canada. "No problem at all."

X

The car was loaded easily enough. France knew just how to keep everything pristine and the added space of the SUV was a welcome addition.

Before he knew it they were to Canada's house in the nearby suburbs.

As they pulled into the garage Canada turned to France.

"You can store your art in my studio so it can dry properly if you want," said Canada.

"You have a studio?" France said. He hadn't anticipated that. Not that it was unusual for a nation to have a large house with many rooms converted for various interests but it didn't seem like something Canada would have invested in.

"Grab something small and I'll show you," Canada replied.

France paid little attention to what he grabbed. He had to see Canada's art room.

They walked through the kitchen and made their way up the stairs and to the back of the house. Canada popped the door open with his foot and continued inside leaving France to view the space from the doorway.

It was a very small studio – nothing at all like the one in his house, or Austria's house, or even England's house. Despite its size, it still seemed well equipped but underused in odd places. Dust coated the easel and drawing station but the floors were spotless as were the many drawers and open shelves full of supplies. Canada had bustled to a smaller closet-type area that had been converted with drying racks for paintings.

When he turned around he saw France standing confused in the doorway.

"I hardly ever use the room," Canada said. "I never have good luck with things when I'm just staring at a wall. But give me a plant or a landscape in front of me and I can go to town. Just water colors though. Everything else is pretty disappointing." True to form France could see the small traveler's art case in the corner by the door. It was beat to hell but still in perfect working order.

"I never knew."

"Yeah. Well. I'm not nearly as good as a lot of you other guys. But that's ok. I like doing what I like doing and it is for my benefit, not theirs."

"I'm not that good," said France.

"Francis – You are a fantastic painter. And sculptor. And everything."

"But – "

"Say one word otherwise and I will kick you out of my house."

"If you say so."

"Do us all a favor and learn how to take a compliment."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I'm sure there is a reason for you to hide your greatness. I'm just happy that you are willing to share a bit of it with me. Speaking of, you are welcome to use anything you wish in this room while you are here. I don't care how much or of what. I just want you to be comfortable."

If only he knew, France thought. It has nothing to do with him. Or his talent. Or his supplies. It was all in the kisses. He was no good without them.

France kept fairly quiet as he and Canada moved the artwork from the SUV to the art room. Canada didn't seem to notice as he chatted aimlessly as they worked.

He got more into the conversation as the pair rolled into dinner. They mostly reminisced. Swapping stories of old but good times and the antics of their fellow nations. It was comfortable and homely. In fact, it was just like their Skype dinner dates only with the added bonus of being able to reach out and touch the other if the desire arose.

The conversation continued along with after dinner wine and disserts in the living room. They shared bites of overly rich chocolate cake that France could tell was made not only from scratch but the old fashioned way with four days worth of calories from lard but so good that it was not worth complaining. France didn't even comment on the hodgepodge of furniture styles and colors in the room. It was all exceedingly comfortable even though the couch made it impossible not to slouch.

The evening was superb. France was even pleased when Canada started nodding off onto his shoulder. He was content.

20 minutes later Canada's head drooped farther down France's shoulder and before France could correct the error Canada has started awake.

"I'm falling asleep on you. I'm so sorry," said Canada.

"It is ok. I was enjoying it," France said.

"Still, I should get to bed. Sorry for skipping out on you so early. Feel free to say up as late as you want. In one of these drawers is a TV guide if you want to watch TV. The book nook is two doors down from the bathroom if you want that instead," said Canada. If France could have given an award for vague gesturing Canada would have certainly taken first prize in that moment.

"Book nook?" said France.

"Have you even seen Arthur's library? I only have a modest collection of books all put into one space not the shelved knowledge of the universe here."

Again Canada yawned.

"Thank you for your hospitality. Please. Get some rest. I will be fine," said France.

"Ok."

Then Canada leaned down and kissed him. It was simple, slow and soft. France could taste traces of the chocolate cake on those lips. The action itself was so smooth, almost like an afterthought. But just like so many of their shared kisses before, Canada pulled away and sleepily wandered up the stairs to his room.

Well that solved France's problem for what he would do for a few hours before he got tired that night.

X

The hours slipped away.

France was fortunate to discover a large drawer of under loved oil paints and he let himself cut loose.

It was so easy too. All he had to do was shut his eyes and Canada came unbidden to him.

It was only fair that he paint Canada then. The prairies, the mountains, the watersheds, the forests. France did his best to paint the feel of Canada all around him.

He was putting the finishing touch on a small painting of a wild cat ruggedly alone on a mountain when he felt a presence behind him.

He took his time to rinse out the borrowed brushes before addressing the interloper.

He turned and there was Canada calmly watching him from across the room.

"You looked so focused," came the sleep-soft voice. "I didn't want to interrupt."

It was an adorable sight. Canada was wearing loose sleep pants and an oversized hockey jersey that simply drowned his body in clothing.

"What are you – Oh. Is it really that late?" said France.

"Yes. I take it you haven't been to bed yet," said Canada.

"Um. No."

"Mmmm."

Oddly enough France did not feel threatened that he had been caught in the act of expressing himself. It was an unusual turnaround that should have left him feeling more conflicted inside then he actually was. More troubling was that he wasn't entirely sure how he had managed to get from being so defensive earlier in the day to whatever was possessing him right now.

"You know," said Canada. "If you were anyone else I would make a crack about painting suggestive portraits of me. But honestly I'm just more flattered then anything. Sorry for intruding though."

France colored at the words. His detailed landscapes – were they really so photo perfect for Canada to see his image in them. And then for Canada to know about them on top of that. It was almost too much. France figured he'd save himself the trouble and just keep silent.

"If I may ask? What made you decide to focus on me this time?" said Canada.

It was a fair enough question.

But the truth could damn France.

Still. He could not hope to dream of a successful relationship with this wonderful person without coming clean. It wasn't fair to anyone. Especially to Canada. He had to tell him the truth.

"Mathieu," said France. He may be tired but he's not stupid. This was a matter of great delicacy. "I have troubles with my art." France was smart enough to hold his hand up to silence Canada's comments.

If he didn't do this now he feared he would never do it and risk ruining everything. (Although everything might be ruined already.)

"This here – and the paintings you have seen before," said France. "They are special to me because only rarely do I get such inspiration."

Canada was silent still and France was grateful. He wasn't done yet. But the hardest part was yet to come.

"That is truly the problem," said France. "The inspiration. I can't just go out and do it. The perfect scene could be in front of me and try as I might nothing works.

"Upon occasion I get inspiration. Sometimes I take it. But that leads to … problems. My sacrificed reputation is the result."

Canada's face went dark at that comment so France rushed along.

"It's not sex," France said. "Goodness no."

He focused instead on rolling a paintbrush in his hands. He was confident that he still had a few more good paintings left in him should this all go poorly.

"But you," France continued. "You have helped me so much in these past few months. I don't think you even know. But I feel for you more beyond just that. Please. You must understand that my feeling is real and it is not just a perversion of this stupid damnation. Mathieu I – "

Lips.

Lips on his.

Soft, smooth, slightly chapped.

Pressure there and gone.

"Francis. It's ok," said Canada. He moved to cup France's face in his hands and draw the other's eyes to the sincerity in his own face. "Please. Say no more. I understand. At least I think I do."

"But – "

"No. I would kiss you a thousand times a day if that is what you wanted," Canada continued. "I could never seem to figure out the pattern so I asked around. No one knew. But the closer we got the more I was sure of it.

"You are so strong for resisting a willing temptation." Canada kissed him again at that. France simply sighed into it. "Please. It's ok. You do not have to hide with me."

France could do nothing more then lean in and hug Canada. He was pretty sure he was crying. He didn't care though. The relief of finding someone who not only understood but still found a way to care and love him was almost beyond comprehension.

It was a long hug.

It was only when Canada shifted a bit (he had been kneeling on hard wood floors for some time after he had cupped France's face during the dramatic conversation) did France realize just how utterly spent he was. He had run a marathon. Climbed the tallest mountains. Swam the span of an ocean.

"I think it is time for bed," said Canada softly.

Together the pair shuffled out into the hallway and over to France's guest bedroom.

Once inside Canada softly propelled France over to the bed. France understood the depth of his exhaustion when he did not protest to having his shoes shucked off and his belt removed.

Ever so gently he was tucked in by warm, loving hands.

"Thank you, Mathieu," said France.

"Good night, Francis," Canada said. "I've got something for you before the sandman takes you away."

"Oh?"

Canada kissed him deeply and sensuously again. Awkward angle be damned – it was another wonderful kiss that sent sparks flying down France's limbs and made stars burst behind his eyes.

"There's your kiss to build a dream on."

A/N: What did this thing turn into?! As the last line may give away, this fic was inspired by Louis Armstrong's "Kiss to Build a Dream On." I was listening to the song when I first came across hubedihubbe's France-is-not-a-rapist post. I felt like it would be the perfect opportunity to fashion my take on what could have propagated this rumor. I got quite a bit into it but then my grandma passed away. That was certainly enough to kill my muse for a good while. I owe it to the lovely author!anon of The Waterloo Line to kick me back into gear. (Note that the Waterloo Line is a FrUk fic but hey, good writing is good writing and I am a multishipper and honestly, Franada kind of came out of nowhere on this one.) I hope you enjoyed it. My grasp on France has always been tenuous at best but I tried to make it believable while encapsulating the kind of inner hurt that labeling can do to a person. The title, Mood Indigo, is a wonderful jazzy song that I used to further inspire this incarnation of France. Also, if the wording of the telephone conversations between France and Canada seems reminiscent of something, check out E. E. Cumming's "Your Little Voice." I know I probably should have broken this up into multiple chapters but I pulled an artsy-fartsy thing and decided that the flow got too messed up when broken apart, hence the mega one-shot. Thanks for staying with me this long. You are all lovely people.


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